First, some headlines:
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**The winners of WOULDN'T IT BE DEADLY are Trudi G and Jody Crocker! Email me via my website http://www.HankPhillippiRyan.com with your address!
****And this is the LAST DAY to enter my TRUTH BE TOLD contest to win a Kindle, a Nook or a big-buck gift certificate! Check it out here!
Now.
HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: All this week we’re
talking about timing. How much difference it makes when we live. The times of our lives.
Usually
I write a little intro. But not today. I’d rather have you simply read this
from my dear pal Kira Peikoff. It's a very different post than we've ever had here. But that's the point, right?
How
My Teenage Romance Helped Me Become a Writer
His hands hooked me first. They were
capable and smooth, with agile fingers and short clean nails—attractive, if
ordinary. But when he sat down at a piano, they unleashed a talent of dazzling
power.
We were 17, high school juniors on
summer break, when I first saw them in action. We shared a piano bench as he
treated me to a concert for one, covering hit staples of Billy Joel and Elton
John. He closed his eyes when he played, as though nothing but the music
mattered. And in his ideal world, nothing else did.
But this was reality. Soon we were in
college trying to figure out the direction of our lives; the only thing we were
sure of was each other. I loved to write and he to play, but we shied away from
artistic careers that everyone knew were fast tracks to poverty and
disappointment.
After a particularly grueling internship he
sweated out in the world of high-stakes finance, a revelation struck him. It
was New Year’s Day. We were sitting on cliffs overlooking the ocean in Corona
del Mar, California, a favorite childhood spot of mine.
He turned to me, and the light of the
sun caught the gold flecks in his eyes.
“I want to do music,” he said. “That’s
what I want to do with my life.”
We were 21. Still young enough to make
mistakes, I thought. Let him go for it. Real life—the stable, comfortable,
secure life I envisioned for us—could wait.
I cheered him on, simultaneously in
awe and jealous of his commitment to his passion. I was less brave. After
spending a gap year working on a novel, I jumped onto the corporate ladder of
New York publishing. It was the closest I could get to books without actually
being an author. I chose to focus on my backup career as an editor, while still
taking the weekends to write fiction.
While he made his dream front and
center, I kept mine hidden from colleagues, ashamed of the absurdist cliché I’d
become. I was an editorial assistant who wrote rejection letters to agents,
only to come home and receive my own similar letters.
But I harbored a secret smugness, too.
It was okay if I failed at my art, because I had a safety net. I had a
Society-Approved Career. He didn’t. I balked at how seamlessly he coped with
unpredictability. Yet he pressed on with his unconventional choice.
Our early twenties stretched into our
mid-twenties. He held down a part-time sales job at a piano store while working
tirelessly on music: He taught himself audio recording, wrote dozens of songs,
and linked up with producers all over town.
My friends used to ask me, with sincere
concern: what’s he going to do if he doesn’t make it? In their omitted subtext,
I heard: when is he going to quit and grow up?
I would shake my head. The fact that
they asked at all meant they didn’t understand him as well as I did by then:
Once he made up his mind, there was no going back. Instead of waiting out his
“phase,” I was starting to admire his tenacity.
But my commitment to creativity was as
flimsy as his was solid. When I tried to write on the weekends, I found that my
imagination had atrophied. Buried in days of paperwork and reading other
people’s manuscripts, I had nothing left for my own.
While his life blossomed into national
touring gigs, shout outs from celebrities, and an honest-to-god income stream,
mine descended into conflicted misery. Should I take the leap, like him? Or
keep trying for two separate but equal careers?
When I finally got an agent and sold my
first novel, I knew I was on the threshold of an opportunity. But first I had
to reconsider what it meant to be “a success.” Was short-term happiness more
important than long-term stability? Could I, a hater of uncertainty, be
comfortable literally plotting my own path? I wasn’t sure.
But he was. To him, it didn’t have to
be all or nothing, fame and riches or bust. The future didn’t need to be
problem-solved years in advance. As long as he could get up and do what he
loved--most of the time--that was enough.
While I was contemplating my options, a
sudden medical scare interrupted everything. For a few months, I’d been
ignoring strange flashes of white light in my right eye. Then I found out my
retina was in the process of spontaneously detaching. If I didn’t have surgery
right away, I’d go blind.
He held my hand in the hospital and during the
brutal weeks of recovery afterward. Once I returned to my office job, I was
squinting hard in more ways than one. My surgeon had warned me that my other
retina was—and still is--at risk for the same problem. Anytime it might detach
out of the blue. Talk about no guarantees.
I thought: If my vision is going to be
limited one day, I better take full advantage of it now, since I might not be
able to later. So with my piano man’s full support, I came to embrace the only
career I’d ever really wanted.
I chucked convention, kicked the ladder
to the curb, and followed him down into the creative underworld. I traded suit
skirts for sweatpants and daily meetings for dates with my Macbook. Like him, I
got by with freelance and part-time work.
Our parallel lives became like
patchwork quilts. Necessary dull scraps alternated with bursts of color. The
pattern was chaotic, but each day it was made by hand, with love.
And like him, I have not looked back
since. That’s not to say there haven’t been false starts. I wrote a partial
draft of a manuscript that failed to sell. Again I started over.
Over the next year and a half, I wrote
a complete second novel on spec, not knowing if it would ever be published. But
I didn’t need to know. A contract wasn’t the part that mattered most—though
that would follow.
His EP and my first book came out
around the same time. Each of us proudly gave our first copy, hot off the
press, to the other. We display them on a shelf side by side, a reminder of
what’s possible. We share a common understanding now: Our goals don’t have
expiration dates. Growing up doesn’t have to mean giving up.
Every year, we return to that magical
spot on the cliffs by the beach. It has become a place of wonder and
possibility, where our dreams and reality go to get acquainted. So it was only
fitting when, three years ago, he chose that spot to propose.
On our wedding day, we faced each other
at an altar overlooking the Pacific. Before we exchanged rings, our officiant
instructed us to hold hands while he recited a short poem that seemed as though
it had been written just for us.
I slipped my hands into my
almost-husband’s and felt their quiet strength ground my nerves. A decade after
our date on the piano bench, they were a little bit rugged, a little bit worn,
but more capable than ever. And so, I realized, were mine.
He gave me a gentle squeeze as our
officiant read:
These
are the hands of your best friend, young and strong and full of love, that hold
yours on your wedding day/
These are the hands that will work alongside yours as you
build your future together/
These are the hands that will give you strength when you
struggle/ and the support and encouragement to chase down your dreams.
Kira Peikoff, a journalist and novelist in New York, has written for The New York
Times, Slate, Salon, and Nautilus, among many others. Her latest book is NO TIME TO DIE, a thriller about a young woman who mysteriously stops aging and
may contain the fountain of youth in her DNA.
